i'll carry you home
by supernovas
Summary: In which the three parents never escape the Nemeton and all of a sudden Derek's the only thing Stiles can call home. /or, Stiles moves in with Derek. :: au, sterek ::
1. chapter one :: empty houses

**notes | **so, i just finished marathoning teen wolf and for some reason i decided i wanted to make myself sadder than i already was and this kind of happened...enjoy?

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i'll carry you home

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chapter one

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"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Lydia asks, her voice laced with concern, as she straightens Stiles' tie for what seems like the one hundredth time, smoothing down the lapels of a suit which pinches around his shoulders and feels uncomfortably tight around his chest because he hasn't worn since he was thirteen and his Great Aunt Fiona died.

"Yeah," Stiles responds, forcing a smile from between stiff lips at Lydia. It's a stupid question to ask and his answer is the furthest thing from the truth – he knows that, Lydia knows that – but Lydia's worried about him and preparing for something like this, there's not much she can say except that, even though they both know nothing's going to be okay for a long time.

Lydia looks at him, her forehead creasing as she takes in his gaunt appearance, complete with pasty skin, chapped lips and hollowed eyes. Stiles has kind of been semi-aware about the deterioration of his appearance over the last few weeks but from the way Lydia's looking at him Stiles can't help but wonder if Lydia's thinking she's looking at a ghost.

"Admiring the view?" He asks, trying to summon his usual jovial tone, but the words just seem dead and inappropriate, and Stiles can no longer stand the look of_pity _which is etched across his friend's face. He coughs, regretting the comment at once, because it's just about as suitable as the fact that the sun is shining on the day he's going to bury his-

_No._

Stiles closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath, trying to quench the feeling of helplessness which consumes him every time he remembers the Nemeton, the sheeting rain and the scream which had escaped him as he realised he had been too late. Too late to save-

"Shall we go then?" Lydia's voice interrupts the memories which are washing over him and Stiles returns to Lydia's bedroom with its pink walls and flower duvet with a jolt. He focuses on her face, trying to remain upright on knees which have suddenly turned to jelly.

"Yes." Stiles feels Lydia's hand on his arm, trying to guide him out of the door, but his feet are rooted to the carpet. That feeling is rising up in his throat again and he can feel the pancakes and nutella Lydia forced down him that morning swirling in his stomach.

His feet unstick and Stiles makes it to the bathroom just in time to retch the contents of his breakfast into the toilet. He screws up his eyes as he vomits the yellow and brown mixture into the bowl before collapsing against the side of the bath, his heart pounding against his chest, the acrid taste of sick burning his throat.

Stiles buries his head in his knees and can just make out Lydia's high heels standing in the doorway. He doesn't look up because he doesn't know if he'll be able to take the look of pity on her face anymore.

"Oh, Stiles."

Stiles hears the clip of Lydia's high heels against the linoleum floor, followed by the flush of the toilet. Then he feels Lydia lower herself onto the floor, squeezing between him and the wall.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "You don't have to do this, Stiles."

Stiles laughs bitterly. "I can't not turn up to my – his funeral."

"I know but-" Lydia begins, but Stiles cuts across her.

"I have to go," he says, clambering awkwardly to his feet. He contorts his face into a smile for Lydia because he may not be harbouring a not-so-secret-crush on her anymore but for the last few weeks she's been the only friend he's had. She'd let him stay at her house; she cleaned up his sick; she held him when all he could do was cry.

And because he decided a long time ago that if there there was one person in the whole of their fucked up little town that deserved a smile, it was Lydia Martin.

**-:-**

The church parking lot is already full as Lydia manoeuvres the jeep through the rows of cars and mourners, making their way towards the little church. Stiles picks out faces amongst the throngs of people – he spots Scott's dad leaning against the outside wall of the garden; Cora Hale speaking to a Deputy just inside the entrance; Coach is there, dressed in a black baseball jacket, climbing out of his car.

"Looks like the whole town came," Lydia comments, stalling the engine as she finishes parking in one of the last remaining spaces. "I-I think that he would have been happy, y'know?"

"Sure." The swirling feeling has returned to Stiles' stomach and he doesn't trust himself to speak without dry heaving.

Lydia gives his hand one last squeeze, and opens the car door, the hem of her black dress fluttering around her knees. Stiles' concentrates on that, letting the soft movement of the material calm his thumping heart as he awkwardly clambers out of the car.

His knees buckle for a moment but Lydia's there, catching his arm and whispering that it's _all okay _even though they both know it's not.

Lydia doesn't say anything as she leads Stiles through the mass of people. He doesn't speak either, he just nods and lets the sea of condolences and well wishers wash over him as he and Lydia enter the church.

Inside Stiles stops suddenly, his feet unable to take another step as he takes in the sight in front of him:

The church is already packed. Grievers squash against each other in every pew, a mass of black hats and suits as more people line the other edges of the church, jostling against each other for space.

In the front row Stiles spots his friends – his pack. Scott is at the end, sitting upright, his shoulder tense and angular underneath his jacket. Stiles has known Scott long enough to know this is what he does when he's trying not to cry.

Allison is past the trying-not-to-cry stage. Her shoulders are shaking, her body wracked with sobs. Isaac sits next to her, his arms wrapped around her trembling figure and Stiles wonders if he's trying to take some of the pain away.

Next to Isaac is Deaton. He's staring directly at the alter, his head bowed and his hands clasped at his across his heart.

Then there's a space, which Stiles presumes is for Cora because next to the space is Derek. Stiles hasn't seen Derek since he and Scott told him about Jennifer's true identity and Stiles can't help but think that there's something changed about the wolf. He's always been broken – Derek has suffered enough shit to last most people a lifetime – but dressed in an old suit, with his shoulders slumped and head hanging loosely with what could only be described as defeat, there was something painfully _empty_about Derek.

Wrenching his gaze away from his friend, Stiles finds his eyes being drawn towards to alter and for a moment Stiles wonders if he's stopped breathing and he's one hundred percent sure that if it weren't for Lydia's support he wouldn't be able to stand.

There are three pictures on the podium, aligned in a curve before the lectern. Flowers are arranged bellow them. The first picture is of Melissa McCall. She's laughing in the photograph, her face half turned away from the camera as if it had been snapped without her knowing it. She looks so beautiful and happy and carefree and it burns Stiles' heart as he recalls her fate.

The middle picture is of Chris Argent. He looks younger than Stiles' had ever seen him, his hair brown rather than grey and the haunted look which had glazed over his eyes since the death of his wife and sister is replaced by one of love as he beams at the photographer.

And the last picture-

_Oh._

Stiles' vision spins, and he tries to concentrate on Lydia's nails digging into his arms as she tries to hold him upright but it's no use because his weight is more than she can handle and Stiles' legs are failing to hold him up. He tries to close his eyes but the photograph his engrained into his eyes.

The photo of his father. It's a picture he knows well because it's the one which his father always had on his bedside table, from before Stiles' mother had died, and the three of them did crazy things like take spontaneous day trips to the seaside where they would eat and laugh and his mother would drag his father into the icy sea whilst Stiles jumped around on the sand, snapping pictures of their dancing faces, lit up by the sun reflecting off the water.

Stiles' eyes snap open and the floor is only centimetres away from his face and for a moment Stiles is certain he's about to crash into it when he feels strong grip on his other arm, hauling him upwards.

Stiles collapses against the large body attached to the arm which pulled him up. He buries his head in the crook of their neck, trying to regulate his harried breathing, concentrating on the fact that the person smelt like pine aftershave and a little bit like leather as he's lead towards the front pew.

It's only later once he's safely in between Scott and Allison, Allison's hand grasping his, Stiles realizes that Derek had been the one who had caught him.

**-:-**

Stiles can never remember much of the funeral after that. It passes in a blur of oak coffins, bible passages and the promises that the three parents would receive eternity in the Kingdom of God.

It's a load of fucking bullshit, and Stiles knows that but he still mutters Amen when necessary and later, when he throws a handful of dirt into his father's grave, he tries to whisper goodbye.

Later at the reception, Stiles finds himself sitting at a table with Allison, Scott, Isaac, Lydia and Cora. Deaton is in a corner talking to their English teacher and Stiles can't help but wonder where Derek is.

No one talks. Stiles stares aimlessly around the room and thinks how fucking stupid it is that people are milling round eating cake when three people have just been murdered. Scott is obviously thinking the same thing because his sadness has been replaced with anger as he rips a pile of serviettes to shreds.

Eventually Allison speaks. Although she's stopped crying, her voice is still shaking. "What are we going to do?" She asks.

There's silence until Isaac asks cautiously, "What do you mean?"

"I can't live by myself in an empty house forever. There are too many memories and I just can't." Tears spill out of her eyes and Stiles can't help but agree. After Scott had found the bodies buried under the remains of the Nemeton, Stiles had tried to go home. Except he couldn't step across the threshold because even the sight of the hallway reminded him of his father.

He had wept on the doorstep until Lydia had found him and half dragged him to her car, taking him home with her. But he could never called Lydia's place his home.

"I agree." Stiles says surprised by how much strength remained in his voice. "I've got nowhere I can call home anymore."

He winces inwardly at the brief look of hurt which flicks across Lydia's face but it's soon replaced by understanding which pushes past the initial rejection.

Scott looks up from shredding his napkins. "My dad wants me to move back to New York with him," he tells them. His voice is dead and emotionless. "He's leaving on Wednesday."

"Are you ," Lydia pauses "–are you going to go with him?"

Scott tears a fresh napkin in half. "No," he says. "But I can't stay at my house either."

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles spots Cora, opening and closing her mouth as if she wants to say something but can't quite bring herself to let the words escape. Cora catches him looking and blushes.

"Derek and I," she begins hesitantly. "The loft is pretty big. There are a few spare bedrooms. I suppose we could all make room."

She blushes a deeper shade of scarlet and in any other situation Stiles would have laughed because it's something short of a fucking miracle to see a Hale blush.

Everyone else at the table stares at Cora, with a mixture of shock and wariness etched across their faces.

"What?" Cora snaps, her blush fading. "It was just an idea."

"It's not a bad idea, Cora," Scott says, the words stumbling on his lips. "It's just – I mean, are you sure Derek's okay with this?"

A smirk teases its way onto Cora's face and it's a smirk which could never mean anything good.

"It was Derek's idea," she tells the group.

Scott's hand slips and the mound of shredded napkins fall to the floor.


	2. chapter two :: lumpy sofas

**notes | **oh my goodness, thank you all for the phenomenal response – i wasn't even expecting half of that! anyway, here's chapter two and i'll admit it's a bit of a filler chapter, so not much actually happens but i do hope you still enjoy it.

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chapter two

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Stiles' is standing in front of the complex of warehouses which house the Hale loft, staring up at the empty windows, when Scott pulls up on his motorbike. He lets the engine rev once, then twice before jumping off, following Stiles' gaze and glowering up at the block.

Out of the three of them, Scott had been the hardest to persuade to move in with the Hales. He'd been convinced that Derek was using their parents' deaths to lure them back into his pack, because after Boyd and Erica had died, and Isaac's unofficial change over to the McCall Pack, all Derek had been left with was his little sister and brooding uncle.

There was still something off about Peter, Stiles thinks, but then again there had always been something odd about the older wolf; something which put Stiles on edge – something about the glint in Uncle Wolfie's eyes which always made him wonder where Peter's loyalties actually lay.

"Hey, dude," Stiles shoots the closest thing to a smile at his friend as Scott joins him, glaring at the building with distaste. Scott's shoulders are tight and Stiles tries to ignore the yellowish glint which is shining at the back of Scott's irises.

"Hey." Scott's voice is clipped and Stiles wishes he could think of something – anything – to say which would make his friend feel better. Except he can't because everything they've experienced – all they've seen – it's haunting them in ways which have carved holes into their hearts and frayed the edges of their soul and they're things which couldn't really be put into words.

So instead Stiles just bangs his shoulder against Scott's and hope that the touch can maybe begin to begin to convey all the things he can't say. When Scott turns to look at him, Stiles thinks that maybe Scott did understand – just a little bit – because there's the ghost of a smile hiding across his jaw and his eyes are a little bit less amber.

"So," Stiles begins but his sentence is cut off midway by the sound of a car crunching up the drive behind them. Turning around the boys see Lydia and Allison climbing out of the car, Lydia talking animatedly to Allison, who's nodding absently with a broken sort of look on her face.

Opening the trunk of her car, Lydia begins to pull out suitcase after suitcase, whilst Allison struggles with boxes on the back seats. Scott raises a skeptical eyebrow whilst Stiles' grips his own one perfectly-normally-sized duffle ba a little bit tighter.

He had been having mixed feelings about packing up the Stilinski household: he still hasn't been inside since his father died, sending Lydia to get the necessities, not wanting to face the memories and pain and the feeling them he had let his father down. But then, he feels like he's betraying the Sheriff a little bit – leaving his house in the hands of strangers, or to sit forgotten, gathering dust.

"Christ, Allison, did you bring your whole house?" Scott's voice breaks Stiles out of his reprieve, and Stiles joins his friend in looking at the two girls in mock horror.

"Yeah," Stiles eyes Lydia who's dragging what looks like a trunk onto the pavement. She drops it with a crash and several startled pigeons fly up into the sky. Stiles winces. "I'm pretty sure Derek has his own sofa," Stiles continues, before pausing. "Well, now you mentioned it, I'm not entirely sure he does. Maybe werewolves just don't need comfort. It's not like Derek's particularly into – What?"

Stiles stares at his friends who have all started to shuffle awkwardly on the spot. Scott looks like he's ready to rip the handle of his suitcase, Lydia gestures her head slightly to the side and all of a sudden it clicks.

Well fuck.

"Derek's behind me, isn't he?" Stiles asks resignedly, but it's more than a statement than a question because Stiles can practically feel Derek's glare burning into the back of his neck.

"Yeah," Scott agrees.

Awkwardly turning around, Stiles tries for a smile at the wolf, who sure enough is glaring at him with enough ice to stop global warming. "Hey, Derek, dude, bro–" Stiles begins, before cutting of resignedly. He could probably think up some witty comeback which would make him feel better and probably make Derek punch him but his heart isn't in it. Instead he just shrugs and mumbles, "Sorry."

A look of surprise, and then a single spark of pity dance across Derek's face for a long moment. Then he shrugs too, before turning towards Allison. "I do actually have a sofa, you know," he tells her.

Allison opens are mouth but Lydia cuts across her, throwing a large pink handbag at Derek, who catches it, holding it between his thumb and forefinger with a look of disgust.

"I'm moving in too," she announces happily, as Derek drops the handbag on the pavement. Lydia glares at him. "Careful with that."

Derek ignores her, shooting daggers at Lydia instead. "It's squashed enough with you three, I could really do without the extra baggage."

Lydia shrugs. "I can condense."

"I don't think condensing is really possible with that amount of luggage," Scott mumbles under his breath.

Lydia and Derek both send him identical glares.

"This isn't a matter of condensing," Derek snaps. "I–"

"I think Allison is going to need a female influence living with her as the trauma wears of," Lydia explains, interrupting Derek smoothly. "That person is me." She shrugs, as if it were the simplest thing in the world and Stiles can't help but admire her balls – metaphorically, of course – because he sure as well wouldn't have had the courage to stand up to Derek's Death Stare like that.

"What about _Cora?" _Derek insists, but everyone in the parking lot can kind of see it's a lost cause. One doesn't really argue with Lydia Martin. Stiles discovered that a long time ago. You simply listen to her point and then agree whole heartedly with it.

"Cora," says Lydia, wrinkling up her nose. "Doesn't count. She's too werewolfey–"

"Well, duh," Stiles. Lydia hears and Stiles makes a _please-don't-kill- me _gesture under Lydia's withering gaze.

"Anyhow," Lydia finishes primly, reaching for the pink handbag which Derek was now kicking dejectedly with the toe of his shoes. "I'm Allison's best friend. I can help her more than your sister."

Derek makes a sound at the back of his throat which Stiles thinks sounds like a growl but also a little bit like giving in. His heart gives an unexpected burn and all of a sudden all Stiles wants to do is hug the werewolf because there's something oddly _defeated _about him. But Stiles knows all that would result in would be never-reached-before embarrassment scales and a bloody nose.

So instead he coughs slightly and the burn subsides as he asks, "So, are you going to invite us in?"

**-:-**

The Hale loft is unchanged since Stiles has last been in it and he thinks it's nice that for once there aren't ominous Alpha Symbols emblazoned on the windows or pools of water and electric cables flooding the floor.

And it's also nice that he can be in the flat without one supernatural creature attempting to kill he or his friends.

Stiles has always _liked_ Derek's apartment, he supposes idly, gazing out of the wide windows which spread across the far wall. Beacon Hills is laid out like a story book map in front of him, complete with it's dense woods, the bright sun still blazing above them. It's a little bit fucked up, really, that a town that has housed dark secrets that most people could never even begin to believe were _real _looked so perfect.

But that was life for you, wasn't it? Nothing is ever as perfect on the inside than it is on the out.

And for a moment Stiles can't help but think of Derek with his chiseled features and muscular form – fuck, the man had the body and face of a god – but underneath. Underneath Derek Hale was every shade of messed up.

Like they all were.

Except at least Derek had the good fortune of looking like a motherfucking–

"_Stiles_?"

Lydia's voice rips Stiles' pondering's in half and for a moment his vision blurs before focusing on Lydia's face which is about five centimeters away from him, her eyes wide.

"Lydia!" Stiles yelps, stepping back and almost tripping over one of their many bags. "What's up?"

"Dude," Scott says, raising an eyebrow. "You looked like you were in a trance."

Stiles' surveys the little group before him. Isaac and Cora have appeared and are standing on either side of Derek, who's looking at Stiles, arms crossed across his chest, his face unreadable as ever. Stiles can't help a blush spread across his nose as he mutters, "Nothing. I was just thinking."

Allison moves over and squeezes his arm. "Derek was just explaining that now Lydia's staying for a bit, someone is going to have to sleep on the coach for the meanwhile." She nods towards the large blue sofa which has been plonked uncoordinatedly in the middle of the room, facing the large – new – television on the wall.

Stiles looks at Lydia. "Seeing you invited yourself to stay, shouldn't you–"

"No," Lydia declares, and somehow Stiles thinks they have already had this conversation because Derek – and Scott this time – are looking at the redhead defeatedly. "I am not sharing a room with Derek."

"Wha– oh." Stiles trails off noticing the large double bed shoved in an alcove by the window. A pair of pajama's are folded neatly on the surface. "Dude, why do you even sleep in the living room?"

Derek mutters something under his breath that sounds like "precautionary measures" but Stiles wonders if the wolf has a secret late night T.V. show fetish.

"So who _is _sharing– on the couch?" Stiles asks, looking expectantly at Scott.

Scott looks at the floor and Stiles tries to put as much _traitor _into his glare as his best friend says, "I'm sharing with Isaac."

"Cora!" Stiles moans exasperatedly even though he kind of knows what the outcome is going to be. "Can't you sleep with your brother?"

"No!" Cora looks disgusted. "I had enough of him growing up. He snores like a bitch."

Stiles groans. "No offense, but I really, really don't feel like sharing a room with Derek."

Isaac smirks. "That kinda is offensive, Stiles."

"Well, it's not like any of you rushed forwards to offer your services as his roommate."

For a moment Stiles feels bad because it's Derek and he's being a bitch but it's not like he doesn't _want _to share with the wolf – well, he doesn't – but there's something else. Something which makes his head spin like crazy and–

"Well, that's decided," Derek announces brusquely and there's a odd catch in his voice. "Lydia and Allison take the other double bed; Scott and Isaac in the twins, and Cora can have Peter's old room. Stiles, you're on the sofa."

No one – least of all Cora – looks particularly enthused but the group grab their bags and wonder off towards their new homes.

Stiles drags his one duffle back miserably to the sofa. There are some dubious stains on the material and Stiles _really _hopes Jennifer and Derek never had sex on it. Opening his bag, Stiles looks around around wondering where the fuck he's meant to put his stuff, but the only storage space is a chest of draws by Derek's bed.

Vaguely, Stiles wonders if it's filled with rows of carefully folded black t-shirts and leather jackets because that's all Derek seems to ever wear. It probably is, Stiles decides. The wolf probably mass orders them every few years.

Lying down on his new "bed", Stiles stares up at the ceiling. Rafters criss and cross above him and he counts the triangles until his eyes begin to close and he loses himself to sleep.

**-:-**

In his dreams Stiles is back at the Nemeton. It rises above him, the rain creating sinister shadows in it's ancient oak. The wood shimmers until the glow of the Lunar Eclipse, and there's something about the tree which sends shivers down Stiles' spine.

It unnerves Stiles. The darkness of the trees, pressing in around him; the noises which aren't quite from this world, dances through his ears. He shivers again, surveying the roots of the Nemeton. He wants to move, to enter the depths of the caves under the tree but something is stopping him. It's as if his feet are glued to the forest floor, willing him to go anywhere but closer to the Nemeton.

A scream rips through the air. It's broken and horrible and most of all it feels like _pain _and Stiles' feet have suddenly unstuck; he's running towards the Nemeton. Rain is sheeting down, sticking to his clothes but he can't move fast enough and he can see the ancient roots closing in on themselves, crushing the occupants below.

More cries echo through the wood as Stiles' stumbles to a stop, his fingers grasping at the wood, trying to find a way to hold it up, but he can't.

He can't because he's _weak. _

Stiles falls to the floor, fists pounding the mud, his heart pounding as the centre of the Nemeton collapses inwards and the last thing Stiles sees before he's consumed by the darkness, is his father's lifeless corpse, falling further and further away.

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_please don't favourite/follow without leaving a review!_


	3. chapter three :: bloody shoulders

**notes | **yes, i do actually exist – i am so sorry for the horrendous lack of updates; i have been swamped with school and ew. anyhow, here's chapter three which may or may not be completely unedited because i am about to have my laptop confiscated and i wanted to post it before i went to bed. therefore, i apologise for all the errors and the fact it makes no sense; i hope you enjoy it anyway!

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chapter three

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"D'you think we should wake him yet?"

"Nah, let him sleep – he looks kinda cute."

"Allison, he's _drooling_."

"I want to sit down though!"

Stiles' eyes flicker open at the sound of voices. His mouth tastes disgusting – like something has crawled to into and died – and his vision is blurred. As his eyes focus on his surroundings Stiles' lets out a half yelp. His friends are gathered around him, staring down at him with expressions of mixed suspicion, annoyance and worry.

"He's awake!" Isaac comments to no one in particular. "We're going to have to order more food now."

"What the hell?" Stiles moans, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. He still can't quite get the image of the Nemeton and his father's lifeless body out of his head. "It's like, four in the afternoon, why are we getting food?"

Scott raises in eyebrow. "You slept for a while. It's almost ten."

"Why did no one wake me up?" Stiles groans, wanting to bury himself further and further into the sofa.

"You looked peaceful," Allison tells him. "Y'know."

"Like Sleeping Beauty," Isaac adds unhelpfully.

Stiles grunts, wonders how on earth he had managed to look peaceful during the dream which he had been having. He can still feel his heart thumping against his chest and the winds whipping around his face, drawing him closer to the hulk of the Nemeton and the corpses that lay inside.

Stiles feels rather like sicking up his lunch but then he realises he didn't have lunch in the first place.

Fuck, he's hungry.

Rubbing the back of his head, Stiles turns to his friends, who are still milling round his makeshift bed awkwardly. Scanning the faces, Stiles notices all of a sudden that–

"Where's Derek?" He asks abruptly, not quite knowing why his voice sounded so urgent or why he was so nervous for the wolf. There was an odd rolling sensation in his stomach in his stomach and Stiles didn't like it one bit.

Scott looks at him curiously. "Out getting pizza."

Isaac grunts. "Talking of which, I don't know why it's taking him this long. He better not have fucked up our order."

"Jesus, calm down Lahey!" Scott whistles, raising an eyebrow and settling down on the sofa across Stiles' legs. Stiles pulls them up, tucking them against himself as Scott adds, "You're weirdly touchy about food."

Lydia snorts and throws herself down between the two boys. "That's an understatement."

A smile tugs at the corners of Stiles' mouth as Isaac growls at Lydia and Scott throws a pillow at his head as Isaac sits on Scott and Allison moans that this is looking too much like the opening credits of FRIENDS because it's been a long time since he's seen his friends look so _at ease. _

Lightening flashes against the window and the gnawing feeling returns to Stiles chest and he can't think why he's so worried about a man who's half wolf and has a set of claws to easily defend himself.

"Stiles looks worried!" Cora's teasing voice pulls him back to reality and Stiles shakes his head slightly.

"I was just wondering why Derek's not back yet," he comments, trying to keep his voice even. "There's a storm brewing."

"There's a storm brewed, you mean," Isaac says. "It's chucking it down out there."

"Whatever," Stiles murmurs. "It's just pretty rough out there."

"You're out of character tonight," Scott comments. "And Derek's fine, he's a werewolf?"

"I know!" Stiles snaps. "It's kind of hard to miss that at this stage but this is Beacon Hills – scary shit happens here – and when was the last time Derek actually won a fight?"

Isaac snorts into his coca cola. "Harsh, man."

Stiles opens his mouth to reply but as he does, Derek's alarm system begins to blare. Stiles claps his hands over his ears, the piercing shriek attacking his ear drums; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Allison and Lydia do the same thing as three werewolves leap to attention, fangs bared and claws out, glinting in the flashes of lightening.

Stumbling to his feet, Stiles looks frantically for something to use as a weapon, watching Isaac creep towards the sliding doors at the entrance of the loft. Scott and Cora follow behind him, mouths open in a snarl. Just as Isaac reaches the opening mechanism the doors fly open.

Lydia screams and then Allison's holding a bow but the string is empty because the arrow is heading at full speed towards...Derek.

The arrow pierces his side and Derek crashes forward, the pizza boxes tumbling out of his hands. Allison lets lose a ragged shout, dropping her bow and running to Derek's side where Isaac and Scott are already pulling the arrow out of Derek's abdomen.

"I'm so sorry!" Allison is gushing, running her hands frantically through her hair. "I didn't see you until it was released. Oh my God, Derek, I'm sorry."

Derek seems to ignore her, his mouth trying to speak words which don't form. Then Stiles notices them, scratched across his shoulder; Derek's shirt has been ripped from it, exposing the complex of red welts, drawn in zig-zag's across Derek's skin.

"Your _shoulder_!" Stiles' is by Derek before he fully knows what he's doing, gingerly pushing the remnants of tattered material off the right side of Derek's body, exposing the pattern which has almost been _carved _into his skin. "Dude, what happened? They told me you went out to get pizza!"

Derek glares at Stiles and he hopes that the injuries aren't too bad if Derek is still managing to give him the death stare.

"I did," he snapped back at Stiles, gesturing at the pitiful sight of mushed cheese and tomato toppings. "I was ambushed."

"Why is this starting to feel like the beginning of a really bad horror film?" Stiles asks no one in-particular.

"Our whole lives already are a really bad horror film," Isaac tells him.

Scott shoots them a look. He's standing behind Derek, examining the cuts on his back and shoulder with worried look on his face. "Why aren't these healing?" he asks, experimentally prodding one with a hesitant finger.

"I was trying to explain," Derek snaps, flinching away from Scott's finger. "Something jumped me – in the parking lot – I couldn't _see _what it was; it was fast, really fast. It mauled my shoulder and then dragged me into the lobby. Then the alarms went off and it just...disappeared."

Allison looks wide eyed at Derek. "Did you get any impression of it?" she asks. "Like a scent or a feel?"

Derek shakes his head. "It was almost like something was stopping me; like a block."

Scott chews his lip and Stiles has known his friend for long enough to see when his friend was worried about something. "I'll call Deaton tomorrow," he says. "These marks–it's almost like they're in a specific pattern. He might know something."

"Yeah, and then tell us about it in the most useless and cryptic way known to man," Lydia mutters. She's still sitting by the sofa, her face ashen and Stiles can't help but wonder if she's felt something.

"It's better than nothing," Allison replies. "Seeing we have no idea what hurt you."

Derek nods in agreement and Stiles spots him chewing his lip slightly before he says. "The wounds; they're not healing – well, not as fast as they should. And it's like when I got shot with the wolfsbane, but less extreme."

Stiles eyes the cuts, and winces at the red, weeping wounds. "You should clean them up," he says. "Do you have any anti septic or bandages?"

Derek shrugs. "I don't know. We've never had to do this before. It usually heals."

"Yeah, well, it's generally good to be prepared," Stiles mutters under is breath.

"Dude, we're werewolves," Isaac says. "We don't do medicine. We don't need to."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "We can't just leave his shoulder like that. It'll get infected." He scrunches up his nose in disgust. "I really don't want to have to be asked to amputate it again."

Isaac looks confused but Scott interjects before the incident with Kate Argent's fucking magic bullet can be bought up again because Stiles still occasionally has nightmares about the fact he was almost made to cut of a mans arm.

"Stiles is right. We can't let it get infected before the healing process finishes. Does _no one _have anything?" Allison chews her lip anxiously, scanning the loft as if hoping supplies would pop up from underneath the floorboards.

Every looks slightly abashed and stares awkwardly at the floor. Scott runs his fingers agitatedly through his hair. "Fine." Scott looks at Derek, and then at Stiles. "Stiles – help me take Derek too the bathroom. We'll try and patch him up best we can. Everyone else look for anything to use."

The pack nods, dispersing as Stiles joins Scott by Derek's side.

"Take his arm," Scott instructs, trying to loop his own under Derek's armpit who subsequently growls, ripping his arm away.

"I can do it," Derek mutters, staggering to his feet. He stands for a few moments, swaying on the spot before he stumbles forward. Stiles and Scott grab his arms before Derek crashes into the floor.

"Easy," Stiles murmurs, trying to ignore the fact that Derek's skin was feeling wonderfully warm against his own and more on the fact that there was werewolf blood rapidly spreading across his favourite shirt. Derek growls, trying to pull his arm out of their grip but Scott holds fast, steering him towards the bathroom.

The Hale Bathroom has never failed to make Stiles laugh and even with the muscled arm of a two hundred pound werewolf almost strangling him across his throat, Stiles still takes a little time to appreciate the toilet – complete with a chain and rusted handle – which looks like it has been dragged right out of a nineteenth century Period Drama. There scratch marks, embedded in the wall, which no one will tell Stiles where they're from and there's still a nasty stain to the left of the toilet from where Isaac drank too much whilst playing Never Have I Ever and completely missed the sink whilst vomiting.

All in all, it's a rather amusing sight, and Stiles grins a little as he deposits Derek on the toilet seat. The werewolf notices his slight smirk and sends Stiles a dirty look.

"What are you smiling at?" He grumbles, attempting to flex his shoulder. Derek winces, grabbing onto Stiles' arm, his nails – thankfully human, but sharp nevertheless – digging through his shirt sleeves.

"Dude," Stile yelps. "How many times do I have to tell you I am not a dog toy! And I was laughing at your bathroom. Bro, have you seen the place, I mean–"

"Stiles!" Scott groans, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'm going to check to see if Isaac's found anything. Can you two last a second without bickering?"

Stiles makes a face at Derek who growls.

Scott rolls his eyes. "Point made. Just try not to wreck the bathroom anymore. Stiles, try and clean up the wounds."

"What does everyone have against my bathroom?" Derek grumbles. "It's just a–"

"I refuse to have an argument with you about the state of your bathroom, no matter how vile it may be," Stiles says, reaching for a stained flannel draped over the sink and running it under the tap. "You're bathroom is your own personal place, although quite frankly I would highly recommend–"

"Stilinski," Derek says, in more of growl than normal inside-voices-tone as Stiles tries to ignore how fucking hot it sounded when Derek called him by his last name. "Just clean the fucking wounds before you become part of the bathroom wall."

"Ouch, _Hale_." Stiles raises an eyebrow, looking hesitantly at Derek's shoulder. Over the last year of knowing Derek he had become more _accustomed _as such to Derek's threats and although some of them still had the ability to give him the occasional jeebies – not that he was ever going to admit that Derek Hale gave him the jeebies – Stiles had pretty much come to accept Derek's dismissal of other peoples feelings as a way of life.

"Anyway," he adds nervously. "How does one go about cleaning this?"

"I was born a werwolf, Stiles!" Derek snaps. "I have no fucking clue!"  
"Jesus, no need to swear." Stiles steels himself, before experimentally swiping at the bloody mess.

There's a snapping sound as Derek pulls the chain clean off the top of the toilet. Stiles looks up at the werewolf – eyes screwed up in pain, teeth gritted in a grimace – and decides not to make a snarky little comment about lack of pain tolerance because Derek looks..._fuck_...he looks vulnerable and Stiles decides that's it's not everyday Derek Hale is vulnerable.

"Derek?" Stiles asks softly. "I–I–do you want me to stop?"

Without looking up, Derek shakes his head. "Just get it over and done with." His voice is tight and there's a slight strain to his tone.

Stiles braces himself, trying to concentrate less on the mutilated mass of flesh and more on the fact that at least he wasn't being asked to cut off an arm again. Gently, dabbing Derek's shoulder, Stiles tries to clean up the wound best he can.

The silence is dark and heavy, and Stiles can hear is heartbeat spike every time Derek shies away from the wet cloth and he's pretty sure that the creepy-wolfy-hearing picks it up too. Stiles isn't quit sure why this bothers him so much.

Maybe it's because like always – as it always boils down to – he is human. Derek's a great big wolf with super claws and shining eyes who can tear a man apart with his teeth and all Stiles has – and will ever have – is his useless humanity weighing him down. He's already weak and it kills him to appear weaker.

And lately it's been hurting even more because his father had believed in him. He had called him a hero. He had been the one person who had seen him as more as useless, hyperactive, fucked-up Stiles and now he was dead and–

"Stiles?"

Stiles looks up. For some reason his heart is beating double and there's an odd sort of intensity in the way Derek is looking at him.

"I think you're done?" Derek gestures to his shoulder, where Stiles' flannel – now stained scarlet with blood – is still dabbing uselessly at the cuts. Now the blood is gone from the skin, Stiles can make out a shape. One curved shape as been carved deeper into the skin than the rest of the marks.

"Derek..." Stiles begins hesitantly.

"Stiles," Derek chews his lip slightly. "Can I say something?"

"Sure, but dude, you really need to look–"

"I just wanted to say–"

"This is important, your shoulder–"

"–thank you."

Stiles stops mid sentences, the rest of his words trailing off. "I–" he pauses. "What for?"

"Y'know," Derek moves his shoulder. "That. And other stuff. You didn't have to help me, I mean, you already have enough on your plate with–"

Stiles doesn't hear the rest of Derek's words because he's trying to still comprehend what Derek had just said and–

His train of thoughts and Derek's words are cut off, as Scott barrels through the door, his hair stuck to his forehead. He looks curiously at the pair for a moment – Derek still slumped on the toilet, Stiles' hand unconsciously resting on his bare shoulder – before saying, "The front window...it's an–"

Something clicks in Stiles' mind and he stares down at Derek's shoulder again.

_Oh fuck. _

The words leave Stiles and Scott's mouthes at the same time;

"Omega."

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